


Help, high, and happiness.

by maradidepaig



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Cutting, Depressed John, Eventual Fluff, Fluff, Light Angst, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Self-Harm, Sweet, Teen Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-19
Updated: 2018-07-19
Packaged: 2019-06-12 22:09:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,053
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15349803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maradidepaig/pseuds/maradidepaig
Summary: HELP: John is a failure in every way. He is depressed, he is haunted by nightmares, he cuts. He lives in agony, he dreads waking up, he needs help.HIGH: Sherlock notices. Sherlock helps. John has a new high, something that keeps him from falling apart.HAPPINESS: Eventual fluff!(May be uncomfortable for some readers. Read the tags)





	Help, high, and happiness.

**Author's Note:**

> I created this fic to help deal with my emotional problems, and in the hopes of helping others too.   
> Let me know what you think about this, thanks!

The pain.

The excruciating agony.

Yet, the sweet, blissful numbness that follows.

As the thick, red blood flows out of his thighs, John’s panting gradually stops. He feels his panic attack slowing down, and a newfound, almost sacred, calmness fills his mind and body. The pain in his chest stops. The suffocation at his throat stops. The trembling of his hands stops. The tears on his cheeks stop. It is like time itself has frozen, the devils cannot reach him for now, nor the loneliness, nor the haunted memories.

Ah, how he loves the pain.

###

“Save me!” The pained cries of young soldiers dying rang from all directions. Bloody, shaking hands desperately clung onto his bloodied military uniform. “Help me!” They cried in their hoarse voices. Tears spilt out of their eyes as they thought of their faraway home. John, without any medicine left, could do nothing but watch his friends die one by one. He looked into their eyes, damped with sorrow, watched as their body stopped twitching, their tears stopped flowing, and their tight grip on John’s uniform loosened.

The helplessness of not being able to help his friends. The guilt of surviving while none of his friends did. The despair of watching brave, good men perish under flames and gunshots. The loneliness of losing everyone and everything he once loved.

A loud noise reached his ears, and a pang of pain erupted from his shoulders. He felt like being ripped apart. But he felt good. He felt saved, from the hell he was in. Finally, he was going to join his friends. Blissfully, he closed his eyes and fell unconscious.

Except he was not saved. He fell into a new level of hell.

He, was alive.

How he hated being alive.

He woke up from the hospital bed, blinding bright light giving him headaches. How he wanted to die.

Two weeks later he was discharged. Sitting on his bed in his old little flat, he remembered how good the pain from the shoulder wound felt. He remembered how the pain seemed to calm him down. He remembered how the pain took him away from reality and into a wonderland of blissful ignorance. He wondered if it would work again.

Every morning he took his gun from the cabinet, readied himself for joining his friends at last. As he took the safety off, he would change his mind and put it back. Coward, he called himself.

One day he held the blade in his hand for the first time. He was not sure if this was a good idea. John Watson, once a man of steel, was now just a coward who could not even face his nightmares. John Watson, who used to run towards the most dangerous war zones, who used to carry dozens of wounded men on his shoulders from explosions and cannon shots, was now too timid to face reality.

Deep breaths.

With trembling hands he made the first cut.

He felt good.

He felt saved.

A newfound, almost sacred calmness filled his mind and body. Time was frozen. He was drifting in bliss, in where his nightmares could not reach him.

###

Sweat on his forehead. Pained cries haunt his dreams. John screams as the bloody hands claw at his uniform, as the bullet hits his shoulder.

John wakes, in agony and despair. It is still dark. He is lying alone on his bed, surrounding him only silence and darkness.

The night seems scarier than ever. He feels lonelier than ever.

Quivering, he reaches for the blade in his nightstand.

Scars, old and new, line his thighs. Doesn’t matter if he add a couple more now. He needs the pain. He needs to feel good, like he always does after cutting.

As he calmly watches the red liquid seep out, he hears violin music from the living room.

Of course Sherlock isn’t asleep yet, he thinks to himself. Of course Sherlock has heard his screams. Of course Sherlock will give him weird looks tomorrow, John thinks miserably.

The music is not familiar to John, but it is beautiful all the same.

John carefully listens to the music, pleasantly intoxicating in the melody. It is fast, passionate, burning; it is slow, gentle, caressing… It strikes John that it may be a love song, John thinks half-amusedly. Is Sherlock in love with someone?

John shrugs off the thought, his flatmate’s personal life is none of his business.

He slowly calms down listening to Sherlock playing the violin. He looks at his handiwork on his thighs and decides that this is enough for a day.

The blade is put back, and John goes to sleep in the lullaby of the violin.

The next morning John wakes with a yawn. Oh crap. He forgot to dress his cuts last night. He knows he doesn’t want an infection, and definitely not Sherlock poking his head into stuff like this. He scrambles to the bathroom, digging for the bandages. He is halfway through bandaging when the bathroom door is pushed open violently.

“John! There’s a murder at---“a drowsy, half naked Sherlock barges in. John drops his bandages in shock.

Sherlock sweeps a quick look at the mess on the floor, then his legs, and eventually, his blue eyes bores into John’s for a few seconds, lips pursed, brows slightly knitted.

“Well… I’ll be at Scotland Yard to sort out a case. Will be back for dinner. Bye.” With that Sherlock leaves. Five minutes later he is fully dressed and leaves the flat.

John busies himself with tidying the house, trying to forget what has happened.

They eat in silence. Well, _John_ eats, while Sherlock pokes his peas with a fork like a little child.

“How’s the case?” “Fine.” “…Okay.”

Any attempt at small talk is awkwardly ended.

 Dinner is eaten, dishes washed, John sits on the sofa reading newspaper while Sherlock types on his phone.

An hour later, Sherlock puts his phone down. He stares at John. They look at each other for a while before Sherlock says, “You cut.”

That’s not a question. It’s a statement. So John just nods. There’s no point denying. The great detective probably already sees through his mind.

A minute of silence follows, in which John fidgets in his seat uncomfortably.

“I do not know why, well I can fathom a guess, but I don’t know accurately why you do that. But I know how. How you feel when you make the first cut. And how it feels, afterwards.”

John shakes his head. “No you don’t.” No one understands him. What Sherlock sees is a cheerful lad, but nobody sees who John really is. Nobody knows how close to drowning John is. He is drowning in agony, suffocating in loneliness. “You may know a hell lot of biological knowledge about this. I don’t care if you point out the little malfunctions in my brain, whatever hormones I lack, whatever chemical failure I am.” John stands up. “But you never know how it _feels_. You don’t know what a _sentimental_ failure I am.”

Sherlock stands up as well, clutching John’s wrists. “John,” He hesitates before rolling up his own sleeves. On his arms, from the wrists to the upper arms, lie dozens of ugly, poorly-healed scars. Some of them are from drugs, some are cuts, some are scratches. “I’ve been planning to tell you about this for a long time. It was a big chunk of my life that I think you should be entitled to know.”

“Since… since when, Sherlock?” John stammers.

“Since I was about twelve. Got more serious when I started taking drugs. But let’s not dwell into that right now. The real question is, when did I stop? And why? I have stopped that for two years, four months and five days. I have found something more worthy of my time and my attention. I have found something that makes me feel alive. That is, when I met someone at Barts, moved in with him, and lived a wonderful life from then on. He is the high in my life. He makes me feel alive. His every smile, every blink, takes my breath away. Life with him is fantastic, and never boring. I am no longer an outcast, nor a useless being, because I found my meaning beside him.

“I’ve always needed excitement in my life, to keep me from falling apart. First it was cutting, then drugs, then my work. Finally, you. John, you are the high I’m never tired of. It’s always you, John Watson, you keep me right.”

John is silent for a while.

“I’m… I’m a mess, Sherlock. A failure. There’s so much you don’t know about me.”

_A failure. A failure. A failure._ Suddenly, shaking hands, short of breath, blackening vision, all too familiar to John.

Shrieks and screams filled the battlefield. John stumbled over bodies. John starts crying, like he normally does on his bed. But for the first time, he cries in front of Sherlock.

 

 

It would be ridiculous to say that John completely stops having nightmares and stops self-harming. After all, he has been living such a life for years and it is not easy for him just to cut it off. Sometimes he really needs the pain to keep himself together.

But it would also be ridiculous to say that Sherlock has not helped him in many ways possible. John still cries, but now he has a shoulder to cry on; John still cuts, but now he has someone to make sure he bandages it properly afterwards; John still breaks down at night, but now he receives a single red rose on his nightstand every morning; the dreams still haunts him, but now violin music from the living room slowly calms him down.

Months have passed since the incident, and John cannot imagine life without Sherlock. Of course the big-headed git is still being annoying as ever, but he keeps John sane, contended, and happy with his life.

It is a cool autumn night. John’s nightmares bounce back to life, crushing John, threatening to tear him apart. He reaches for the blade. As soon as Sherlock starts playing in the living room though, John stops himself. He thinks of Sherlock. John has always known how selfish he is, to let Sherlock worry about him.

If Sherlock can be so understanding, and yes, gentle, and not force anything with John, if Sherlock can change everything for John, why can’t John change a little bit of himself for Sherlock as well?

John puts the blade back.

For days on end, nightmares come and go, but John uses all his willpower not to touch the blade.

As John watches the telly with Sherlock on the sofa, casually eating Chinese, he reckons that this is the most comfortable time of his day. He is happy.

That night, John does something that surprises even himself. He asks Sherlock to sleep with him. And he agrees.

Sherlock is lying beside him, eyes open, and looking out the window. The night is peaceful, quiet, and calm. Time is frozen. The devils cannot reach John for now.

Why is this happening? John asks himself. The mere presence of Sherlock is enough to calm John, as he bathes in the familiar blissfulness of numbness. And happiness.

For ten years or so, John doesn’t know there is any other way to achieve this happiness besides cutting himself. He knows it is unhealthy for him to cut himself, but for the high he gets afterwards, he continues.

What power does Sherlock have on his mind and his body, that makes John crave for him so much? What power does Sherlock have, that makes John determined enough to stop self harming? What power does Sherlock have, that keeps John from falling apart?

 

 

They solved a case. Lestrade thanked them with a bottle of champagne. It’s been three years since John last touched the sharp object in his nightstand.

They are at their little Baker Street flat. Sherlock is shuffling around, looking for something anxiously. John watches him, amused.

“To the high in my life, to my light, to the love of my life,” Sherlock gets on one knee. “Marry me.”

And John says yes.

Now he knows, he knows, it’s love, that keeps him from falling apart.


End file.
